


Not One Moment

by c_r_roberts



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:36:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5041468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c_r_roberts/pseuds/c_r_roberts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I wonder if he knows.  Does he know how grateful I am to have him–the real him–back in my life?  He tempers my temper.  He makes me laugh, even when I don’t want to.  He makes me feel safe, even when the entire world feels dangerous.  And most importantly, he makes me feel good again.  Alive, even.  With Peeta, I want to keep living.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>Growing together.   Canon-compliant.  </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Not One Moment

"You used to sell those to my father. Real or not real?"

I look up from my boots, which I've just bent down to untie outside the door to my house, and see him standing in my front yard. His eyes focus on mine when I do, and he nods toward the bag I've just dropped on the porch. I watch him carefully as I consider his question. His blond hair has grown out from the close Capitol cut he came back to Twelve wearing last month, his plain dark pants are dusted with what looks like flour, and his blue eyes are clear, but wary.

"Which ones are you talking about?" I ask, a small smile forming on my lips as I look down at my inventory. "The strawberries or the squirrels?" I'm testing him, and I go about untying my boots as I wait for Peeta's answer. I probably should have waited to harvest the strawberries—it's a little early in the season for them yet, but I couldn't resist picking them when I saw them, bright red and full of promise hanging on their bushes. And I figured we were allowed a treat today.

"Both," he finally says. "My father used to buy your squirrels for himself, and the strawberries for the bakery. Strawberry tarts, pies, jams. He bought a lot of your strawberries now that I think about it." My smile grows wider at his successful memory. It's a game we've been playing since that night outside his tent on the rebel base camp in the Capitol, but it's not always so easy. The _not reals_ can be much harder to explain than the _reals._

"Real," I tell him, and Peeta nods, like he knew what my answer would be. He steps up the few front steps and onto my porch, picking up my hunting bag for me as I kick off my boots. I leave them outside in their usual spot, and push open the front door. "But the real question is whether or not you remember how to make those tarts."

Peeta laughs as I lead him inside. He's been over to my house pretty much every day since he's been back, with a standing reservation for the meals Sae cooks. But Sae's coming around less and less these days. And while Peeta's only been in my house without her as a chaperone once or twice before, staying later after dinner to work on the memory book with me, it doesn't feel weird to let him in.

"Let's be honest, even if I don't, you'll still eat whatever I make," he says as we enter.

"Also real," I agree, and we both laugh. I'm pretty certain it's the first time we've laughed together since before the war. And while the laughter feels like a good enough present today, Peeta surprises me once we reach the kitchen.

"Good," he says, dumping my bag on the kitchen counter. "Because I baked a cake for tonight instead. But Sae made me promise not to let you have it until after dinner."

I raise an eyebrow, more at myself than at Peeta. I shouldn't have doubted him; I shouldn't have wondered if he'd remember. His memory is probably better than mine these days.

He grins. "Happy Birthday, Katniss."

***

It's a phone call from my mother that incapacitates me. I'd been doing better too–no bad days for an entire week. We haven't talked in a month, and if she's tried to call I haven't picked up, but I knew I had to answer the phone today. Even if it meant spending the afternoon curled up in a ball on my living room floor. On the one hand, I have to give her credit for being strong enough to call me today. On the other hand, I'd been doing a pretty good job of not remembering why today is so awful until she'd called.

Today is— _was_ —Prim's birthday.

I'd stayed brave on the phone; I talked about the small things, the happy things–that they're going to rebuild the bakery, and they're even talking about rebuilding the school. I told her about the deer I shot the other day and that Peeta had to help me carry it back, and that the entire district feasted on venison that night. My mother asked about Peeta too, with a noticeable edge to her voice, and I'd felt proud, if not a little defiant, to report that he's doing really well and that we've been spending a lot of time together. I don't tell her that my definition of _really well_ is that he's been back for almost two months and in that entire time he hasn't called me a mutt or tried to kill me, but it feels like a victory nonetheless. And on days like today, we have to talk about the victories.

My mother had gone quiet then, before declaring she was glad to hear and that she's happy that the two of us have each other. She'd quickly changed the subject after that, saying Annie was due to have the baby any day now. She told me I should come visit when she does. I told her that I would, even though we both knew I was lying. I don't plan on ever getting on another train.

I fell apart after I hung up the phone though. Because I want it all not to be real. Widowed Annie having to raise her and Finnick's child alone. _Not real._ My mother hiding in District Four because all District Twelve reminds her of is death and tragedy. _Not real._ Or worse yet, that she can't bear to face her own daughter because I remind her too much of those deaths. _Not real._ And Prim, my baby sister, gone, dead, blown to bits without so much as even a body to mourn. _Not real._

Except these are lies, no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise. They're not reality. I know this. I know I can't keep pretending. Dr. Aurelius tells me it's normal to want to bury the past and to ignore the bad and only focus on the good. That it's human nature. But we have to allow ourselves to accept the bad, too. That nothing will really feel good again until we do. And that eventually, the good days will outnumber the bad.

But not today. Today, it feels like there's nothing to live but bad days.

Peeta finds me hours later, after I blew him off for a walk I said I'd go on to visit with Delly, who's just moved back to Twelve this week. He doesn't say a word when he walks in, which he does without even knocking, because we've reached a point where requesting permission to enter each other's houses is unnecessary. Instead, he takes one look at me, peeking out at him with red, swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks from behind a mess of tangled hair, and scoops me up in his arms. I'm too exhausted not to let him. Peeta carries me to my bed, places me down gently on it, and asks me if I want to talk. It's only then that I notice the serious concern on his face, and I want to tell him that I'm fine, and that he shouldn't be so worried about me, but the truth is, I need him. When I don't answer, he sighs, then kicks off his shoes and climbs into bed with me.

I don't stop him from burying us under the covers, or from wrapping his arms tightly around my waist. And I even feel myself relaxing into him, unable to fight the effect of the warmth and security his presence has on me. He still has the same familiar scent–of cinnamon, of dill, that's oddly calming. And it's still the same steady, rhythmic breathing, which I can feel on my neck, along with the rise and fall of his chest against my back that used to help lull me to sleep when sharing a bed with Peeta didn't feel like another lifetime ago. Peeta strokes my hair softly, soothingly. He doesn't say a word. Neither of us do.

I'm just drifting into sleep, having finally exhausted myself out, when I feel him stirring behind me, trying to pull his arm free from where it's trapped underneath me. Instinctively, I reach for his hand and clamp mine around his, holding on tightly. It makes him freeze, still as a statue.

"Stay."

"Katniss," he whispers, and his voice sounds pained. "I don't know if I should—"

"—Please," I cut him off. I'm putting my needs before his, I know this. Peeta's concerned about what may happen if he spends the night in my bed. He's afraid it'll trigger some not real memory and he'll hurt me. But I can't let him go. And there's no way that this person beside me now, who's so kind, and good, and who makes me feel so safe, would ever hurt me. And now that I have it back, I can't lose the comfort Peeta's arms provide me. "Please stay with me."

Maybe Peeta realizes he needs me too. Because he gives up too quickly, and settles back down next to me with a soft sigh and a response that actually provokes a smile from my lips.

"Always."

***

"Not real! Not real! Not real, Peeta, it's not real!"

My voice sounds as frantic and crazed as Peeta currently looks. We're at his house tonight, and he's hanging on tightly to the back of a wooden dining chair, his knuckles white from his grip, his jaw locked and his eyes screwed shut as he tries to fight off a flashback. We'd just been eating dinner, just the two of us, which had been a substantial meal of wild turkey with a cherry sauce and carrots and greens, because it's the height of summer and the woods are practically bursting at the seams with its offerings. We'd made it ourselves, or really, Peeta cooked and I assisted, spending the early evening laughing and joking in his kitchen. Everything turned out delicious, and we'd been happily stuffing our faces while we talked about the new construction around the also new town square, because they broke ground on the bakery today. It's set to be completed before the weather turns cold. Tonight had all the makings of a pleasant August evening. And then Peeta just…snapped.

Although Peeta's told me about the other times it's happened without me around, this is the first time he's had a flashback in my presence since he's been back. I've seen it happen before, of course, and I know enough to keep a safe distance between us when it does. But I never stop feeling helpless. And if I'm being honest, a little hopeless too. Because how do we fight this? How do we possibly make _this_ better? A minute or two ago he was eating a turkey leg, and now he's arguing with himself about bashing the chair over my head.

"Katniss…" My name leaves his throat part growl, part hiss, and he's shaking his head, clearly fighting to get the words out. "Get. Out. Now."

But I don't want to go. All I want is for this to stop. For Peeta to be Peeta, and for his suffering to end. Hasn't he suffered enough? Haven't we all?

"He's right, Katniss. Go home." Haymitch's voice appears behind me, and I turn to see him standing in Peeta's front room. He looks, and sounds, relatively sober, probably because his supply's running low since the train with shipments from the Capitol doesn't arrive until next week. I'm surprised to see him, but also relieved. Not being completely drunk, he probably heard the commotion as it all started, when Peeta stopped eating and suddenly threw his plate against the wall. As evidence, Peeta's dining room wall is currently wearing a nice shade of cherry sauce.

I take a few steps backwards, not taking my eyes off Peeta, who's back to muttering under his breath.

"Haymitch," I whisper, the sting of tears brimming the corners of my eyes, "I can't leave him like this."

"You can't help him like this either," Haymitch tells me tersely, practically dragging me further out of the dining room and towards the door. "He needs to fight through this. And he needs to know he can't hurt you while he does. Go. I'll stay."

For once, I consider Haymitch seriously. He shows me no patience in my deliberation though, and opens Peeta's front door, gesturing for me to get out. "Leave right now or I'll have to knock him out." It's only then I notice that Haymitch has a cast iron pan in his hands. He scowls at my look of sheer horror. "I didn't know what I was getting into over here. You're both pretty lethal when you want to be. But I won't hurt him. If you leave."

It's clear I've lost this battle. Though it's not exactly my battle to fight. "You'll come by when it's all over?" I ask, frowning. Haymitch's expression softens, and he sighs. "Okay, Sweetheart. Now go. Before the kid changes his mind about taking that chair to your head."

"Well, at least eat something while you're here," I tell him before giving one last heart-breaking look to Peeta, who's entire body is now shaking violently. I turn to leave, but not before snatching the pan out of Haymitch's hands, who surprisingly, doesn't fight me about it.

I go home and fight the tears from coming by spending the rest of the night filling in details in the memory book. Peeta's father's cookies. Madge's pretty white dress. The name of Annie and Finnick's newborn son, Nickolas. The lyrics to the Valley Song that I write on Rue's page. Prim's duck tail. I do it not only to preoccupy my own mind, but also because I want Peeta to have these real, good memories too. Who knows? Maybe they'll help keep the evil, not real ones away.

***

"Real or not real? Baking is stupid."

Peeta just laughs at me in my annoyed state, in the brand new bakery's kitchen, my hands covered in sugar and flour and dough. I've made a mess of everything, including the cookies currently cooling on the countertop. They're disastrous. Hideous. They're misshapen, burnt around the edges, and not possibly edible. The district is celebrating the harvest tonight, and I'd decided to help Peeta in the bakery after I'd finished skinning and cleaning the game I'd caught earlier this morning. He'd already made cupcakes and loaves of nut breads to take, and now I was helping him bake sugar cookies. Except all I've really helped him do is dirty up his spotless kitchen and waste perfectly good ingredients.

"Not real," Peeta insists. "They look…great." If I weren't so frustrated, I'd laugh at how unconvinced he sounds by his own statement.

"They're awful," I moan, putting my hands to my head, and only remembering after it's too late that doing so means making a mess in my hair. I don't even bother brushing the crumbs from my scalp.

"Nobody's perfect," Peeta says with a shrug and a smirk. "I mean, some of us can shoot a bow and arrow, and move entire countries into rebellion just by being ourselves, and even assassinate evil dictators. And others of us can bake the perfect cookie. That's just how the world works, it wouldn't be fair if we could do it all."

It's such a ridiculous statement that I can't help but crack a smile. It's also such an inherently _Peeta_ statement for him to make—the kind that's self-deprecatingly funny, and ironic because it's sort of true, and it also somehow makes me feel better too. And I realize how silly I'm being for pouting over a batch of ruined cookies.

"Let's take a break," he suggests, reminding me he has leftover beef stew for lunch.

"Okay," I agree, my stomach rumbling at the thought of food. I haven't eaten anything since the slices of apple and cheese I had for breakfast before my hunt. I watch as Peeta retrieves the leftovers from the bakery's enormous refrigerator and then gathers a pot from the cupboard below our work station to warm them up on the stove top. Once the stew's heating, Peeta turns back to me.

"And while we wait, dessert." I watch, mortified as he reaches for one of my cookies. He bites into it–burnt black edges and all–and chews it carefully. "It's not the first burnt cookie I've ever eaten in my life," he tells me. He takes another bite, and makes a face. "Although, it might be the worst."

I can't stop the laughter that comes then.

"Stop eating it then!" I scold him between laughs, but Peeta just grins back at me, crappy cookie crumbs on his lips, crappy half-eaten cookie in his hands. "Peeta! Stop. We'll feed them to the geese. Or Haymitch." I move around to his side of the table when he doesn't listen and make a feeble attempt to get the cookie out of his hands. Instead, he pops the rest of the cookie into his mouth and wraps his arms around my waist, holding me still as he chews defiantly, his eyes shining as he makes me watch him swallow the last bite.

I wonder if he knows. Does he know how grateful I am to have him–the real him–back in my life? He tempers my temper. He makes me laugh, even when I don't want to. He makes me feel safe, even when the entire world feels dangerous. And most importantly, he makes me feel good again. Alive, even. With Peeta, I want to keep living. I want to be with him, and share these normal, light-hearted moments. Because he reminds me that being the world's worst baker isn't a tragedy, it's funny. And this is what we fought for, this moment right here. A life where no one has to eat terrible burnt cookies to sustain themselves, and where burning a batch of baked goods isn't a big deal because there are enough ingredients to make more. A life where cookies aren't an expensive luxury most of the district can't afford, but instead they're simply _dessert._ I'm sure Peeta's point in eating the stupid cookie wasn't quite so grand, but that's the sort of effect he has on me. He puts things in perspective.

He has another effect on me too, because I also feel a funny, though not unrecognizable, fluttering in my chest as I stare up into his sparkling blue eyes. I've felt this feeling before–in the cave, and on the beach, and more and more often over the past few months back here at home. But I haven't acted on it.

Until now.

I lean up on my toes and press my lips to his. If I catch him off guard, Peeta doesn't show it, and his mouth accepts mine, feeling warm and familiar, and still tasting faintly of sugar.

"Real or not real," Peeta murmurs against my lips when we come up for air. His hands have found my cheeks, and his eyes flutter open as he pulls back to look at me. "I'm about to kiss you again."

***

The district's first real snowfall happens in mid December. The ground hasn't even completely frozen over yet, and the cold air still feels exciting and refreshing. But no one's going outside tonight–there's already a foot of snow on the ground and it's showing no signs of stopping. There's something magical about the first snowfall though, especially when the snow sticks to the tree branches and flakes weld themselves to the window panes, treating the glass like a piece of canvas and making a natural work of art.

"Do you think Haymitch will be all right?" I ask, staring out the window at our neighbor's house. It's dark, only illuminated by the moonlight. The electricity went out an hour ago, and I'm worried about the cranky old man whose house is probably full of nothing but white liquor and goose droppings.

Peeta responds from the living room, where he's tending to the fireplace. "I'm sure he'll be fine," Peeta says calmly. When he sees my less than convinced expression, he puts the poker down and considers me. "But I can go over and check on him if it'll make you feel better."

"No," I say, shaking my head. I'm being silly. Haymitch has survived two reapings, a hunger games, and a civil war. I'm sure he can weather a snowstorm.

"Okay," Peeta says, and then goes about adding another log to the fire. I return to the sofa, where Peeta joins me once he's finished. I pull the soft wool blanket we're sharing over both of us and curl into him, resting my head on his shoulder. We sit in comfortable silence just like that, and I wonder when nights like these–quiet nights with Peeta–began to feel normal and not a luxurious exception. Probably about when we realized he was spending practically every night here anyway and we moved most of his belongings in with him. Now his clothes occupy half my dresser, and we share toothpaste and soap in the bathroom. He even set up his art supplies in the bedroom that used to be my mother's. I can't remember the last time he spent the night anywhere but in my bed. And I can't imagine facing the nights–and the nightmares–without him.

Without electricity, we're no longer sure what to do. Normally, it wouldn't be a big deal, because we rarely watch the television. But tonight there was supposed to be a special airing, a remake of our story, mine and Peeta's. Plutarch had called to tell us about it months ago, asking if he could interview us for research. We'd both declined, and had been horrified at the idea at the time. They were turning us into a movie meant to entertain the country. We–especially me–wanted nothing to do with it.

The decision to watch it came with time. After a while, commercials promoting the movie started airing. The first time we saw one, Peeta grumbled that the actor playing him had a funny accent. And he insisted that the woman playing me didn't look like me at all. He was right about that–she's much more beautiful than I am. Slowly, it became more of a joke between us than anything else. And we thought it might be fun, if not unhealthy, to tune in and see how wrong Plutarch and his people got "our story." Dr. Aurelius didn't necessarily advise against it, either; in fact, he thought it might be a good exercise to help us move past that part of our lives. Though he did caution against it prompting flashbacks, warning that even though it was sure to be a sugar-coated version, it would most likely still have unpleasant triggers.

Anyway, none of it matters now because the weather determined we wouldn't be watching anything tonight. The whole house went dark twenty minutes before the movie was supposed to start. It's probably a good thing. I'd been feeling anxious today, and it more than likely had something to do with reliving the past three years of my life.

After a few more minutes of silence, Peeta offers to warm milk for hot chocolate on the fire. I shake my head and burrow further into him and his sweater, curling my feet up underneath me and the blanket. His arms accept me naturally, without hesitation. Peeta kisses the top of my head with a soft laugh. "Turning down hot chocolate. Worrying about Haymitch. Something's up with you tonight."

He's right. The quiet, and the firelight, and the cave-like feeling to our living room, along with the theatrics that are playing out on our non-working television right now, have made me unusually reflective. "Do you remember what you told me in the cave in the first arena?" I ask, my fingers finding his beneath the blanket and clasping against them. Peeta's thumb brushes back and forth over the top of my hand.

"Probably not. I was pretty delirious and dying then," he says, a hint of a smile on his lips. "And then with all that fake kissing and you pretending to like me stuff, it's hard to keep anything straight."

I scowl and he laughs against my hair again. "What did I tell you, Katniss?"

"You told me about the first time you saw me. When we were five. At school. That I wore my hair in two braids instead of one. And that when I sang in assembly, that's when you knew you were a goner."

"And all you could tell me was that I had a remarkable memory."

I want to scowl again, but only find myself smiling as I pull back and wiggle myself out of his arms in order to look at him. He's very much the same boy with the bread I grew up with, all angelic blond hair and kind blue eyes with a smile so sincere it's impossible not to smile back at him. But he's different too–older, hardened and scarred by two Games, a war, and the deaths of his friends and family. Yet here we still are. Still the two of us. Still a team.

"You know, all of that was a little hard for me to believe," I counter. "I'm still not sure you were telling the truth. Who falls in love when they're five years old?"

"An idiot, probably," Peeta returns, shaking his head at me. But he's smiling too, with a curious look in his eyes. _Why am I bringing all of this up?_

"Well, anyway," I continue, because I have a point I'm trying to make. "I know the moment I knew too."

He raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Yeah?" he asks softly.

I turn further into him, his eyes wide and focused on mine. He waits patiently as I take a deep breath. What I'm about to say isn't a new realization for me, it's just taken me a little bit of time to work up the courage to tell him about it.

"You know, I noticed you in school too. Obviously, with the bread. And afterwards. I watched your wrestling matches. Saw you and your crowd of friends in the lunchroom. And when you were reaped, I wished you hadn't been."

"Well that was nice of you," Peeta deadpans. I just cling to his hand tighter.

"And that's when I really started to get to know you. And how you showed kindness to everyone, even the people who were trying to send you to your death. And to Haymitch, even after he slugged you and you repaid him by washing the vomit off of him. And me, even when I was horrible to you and pushed you into that plant."

"In your defense, you did think I was trying to kill you."

"Right. But still." He grins at me, and I continue. "And I noticed your strength, and also your restraint in using it unless you were forced to. I also noticed your bravery. And how you know exactly who you are and who you want to be and that you'd rather die for your beliefs than change them to stay alive."

"Katniss, I–"

I shake him off. "You need to know you weren't the only one paying attention, okay? But for me, it wasn't so much one single moment, it was a bunch of them that made me know."

I pause, and Peeta swallows thickly, his eyes watching me even more intently, if possible. "Know what?" he asks.

I smile, content in my helplessness over my own emotions. "That I was a goner too."

His lips are on mine before I finish my sentence. Like always, his kisses ignite a warmth inside me that spreads from the pit of my stomach to my fingers and toes.

But this time, I–we–finally give in to the hunger.

And afterwards, as we lay there, naked and beneath the covers of our warm bed in the dark, his hand slips through mine as he leans over to kiss me lightly on the forehead. He waits for me to look at him before he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?"

It's clear by the expression on his face that he knows my answer, but I tell him anyway.

"Real."


End file.
